Please explore my love's endurance and stay
by SunnyRea
Summary: As he looks at John's expression, Sherlock realizes this is not like the other times – John annoyed, John frustrated, John bothered, John angry with his apparent lack of empathy. This time is different, this time is hurt; Sherlock has genuinely hurt John.


Sherlock and John sit together on the couch working on their current case. Sherlock lies in between John's legs, back pressed against John's chest with John's arms around him and hands loose at his stomach. Sherlock holds the crime scene report of their third victim, Jane Matthews, in his hands going over the details yet again. Their three deaths are connected – have to be – same style, all three time of deaths around 9 PM and all blonds. However, beyond these similarities, the _reason_ will not shine through.

John rests his chin on Sherlock's head and clears his throat sleepily. "So, anything new?"

Sherlock grunts.

John kisses Sherlock's curls and applies slight pressure through his fingers against Sherlock's stomach. "Come on, put the file down and do what you do in your head."

"The visual is important."

"The visual is distracting you with clinical details like knife length; you're looking for motive."

Sherlock grins to himself and lets the folder flop against his lap. He rather adores when John turns logic back on him. Sherlock lets go of the folder and puts his hands over John's. He brings up a slide show in his head – body positions, found locations, loss of blood, items found on the body. Sherlock taps a steady rhythm out on John's fingers. Reason, reason, reason?

John kisses Sherlock's temple and slips one hand out from under Sherlock's to slide and down Sherlock's purple shirt. "Well?"

"Oh! It could be status!" Sherlock jumps up from the couch, file clutched in his hand with an 'oomph' noise from John.

Sherlock drops Jane and picks up the file of their first victim, Mandy McClain, paging through it. Were the women all well off? Could it be class? Or perhaps some sort of idol worship to the point of claiming her in death?

"Oh, psychology…" Sherlock mutters, putting the file down again.

This is not exactly his favorite type of serial killing. When the reason starts to stray into wild emotions he just wants to roll his eyes. It makes him miss his 'forced suicide' cab driver. He prefers clues that lead to facts, not analysis of scenes to get inside the killer's head resulting in over done woe related to his childhood. Still, reason leads to method which leads to capture.

"You look like you're going to give yourself an aneurism," John comments from where he still sits on the couch.

Sherlock cracks the edge of a smile and glances at John. "Not yet."

John snorts. "Not ever, I hope."

Sherlock pauses, papers in his hands, and watches John. John raises an eyebrow, keeping the eye contact. He shifts to prop an elbow up on the edge of the couch and curls his legs up under himself.

"Yes?" He asks.

Sherlock smiles and takes two steps over to kiss John's lips. John breathes through his nose sharply in surprise and he kisses Sherlock back. Sherlock strokes his thumb across John's cheek quickly, kisses John again then stands up straight.

John narrows his eyes. "Did I give you an idea or something?"

"No."

"Well, what was that for then?"

Sherlock smiles. "Because I can."

"Oh, well," John chuckles, "that's just fine."

Sherlock smiles again, small and private, back at John. Sometimes when Sherlock actually thinks about his emotions he realizes how wonderful he feels at having a person to touch, to kiss, to hold; a real, alive, person who actually wants him near.

Looking down at the table again, Sherlock slides pages out of Melissa's file, glances at photos, trails his finger down her life stats – single, employed, twenty-five. Sherlock puts his palms flat together against his lips and breathes in slowly.

"It is obvious how they are killed, when they are killed, who they are but just the reason remains." Sherlock clicks his tongue. "It is certainly not for money since none were robbed. Perhaps…" Sherlock feels a tug at the edge of his lips. "Perhaps it is just… for fun."

"Oh, dear..." John stands from the couch, stretching his arms up toward the ceiling. "Right, you seem to be moving along now. I'm going to bed."

"You can't." Sherlock picks up the file on Martha Berk.

"Sherlock, you don't need me."

Sherlock taps the table and snaps his fingers over his shoulder at John. "Yes, I do."

"You're just going to say things to me all night with no need for a response apart from 'ah, yes, Sherlock' or 'that was amazing, Sherlock.'" Sherlock turns around and raises an eyebrow. John nods. "I can do that in the morning."

"Oh, John, don't be dramatic. I am sure you will have something to contribute and you know I work better when I talk out loud."

John sighs, annoyance creeping into his voice. "I have work in the morning, Sherlock. It's past 11 now. You do not need me. I am going to sleep."

"I do need you." Sherlock insists again then waves the folder once. "You cannot go to bed."

John shakes his head and turns toward the kitchen. "Sorry, Sherlock, no; I would like to be awake for going to work."

"Why bother? Your job is useless anyway."

John stops abruptly and his head snaps around. "What?"

"My cases bring in a completely suitable amount of money for the both of us. It is all but unnecessary for you to bother with your job at the practice." Sherlock waves the hand holding his case file. "Be honest, John, you spend enough time leaving your job to attend to our cases. If you were so necessary would there not be more repercussions to your absence?" Sherlock nods his head. "I am sure another physician could easily fill your position. Thus, there is no need for you to keep it. So, no need to go to sleep."

Sherlock pivots and puts down the papers in his hand on the table. He shuffles them around looking for the supplement file of CCTV footage for a few seconds then he notices the silence. John has not said anything at all. Sherlock turns back slowly and looks at John. John is staring at him, face a mix of emotions at once familiar and foreign: shock and a line of something which seems like pain.

Sherlock presses his lips together because the silence must mean error. "I've said the wrong thing."

"No," John replies but his voice croaks and the remark is an obvious lie.

John breathes in once through his nose and puts his hands on his hips. He looks away from Sherlock then back again with obvious effort.

"It's what you think." He smiles and it is the most forced smile Sherlock has ever seen grace his face. "I suppose I can't argue that."

If the table were not directly behind Sherlock he would have taken a step back. He stares at John, does not respond. As he looks at John's expression, Sherlock realizes this is not like the other times – John annoyed with him, John frustrated, John bothered, John angry with his apparent lack of empathy. This time is different, this time is hurt; Sherlock has genuinely hurt John. Sherlock has to do something.

"John…" Sherlock takes three steps forward into John's space. He reaches out to touch John's side but John steps back.

He puts a hand palm up between them and does not quite look at Sherlock. It feels like a slap.

Sherlock's arms prickle and he wants to grab John, shake him, kiss him because right now he really needs John to just look at him. Why does it suddenly matter so much that John meet his eye?

"John," Sherlock says again.

"I'm going to bed," John replies quietly, dropping his hand, and he turns away.

Sherlock watches John the whole way on his walk through the kitchen, through the door, and into their room where he shuts the door. Sherlock stands in the middle of the living room staring at the closed door. He thinks about the proper response to such a situation – apology? Request for forgiveness? A present? Something…

Sherlock can't concentrate on his case now. He should be trying it find a killer but all he sees in the monitor of his mind is John's hurt face. Sherlock touches the finger tips of his hands together feeling as awkward as he always did as a teenager surrounded by his 'peers' throwing emotions in the wind, emotions which always went right through him hitting nothing. John hits him in the heart every time.

Sherlock drops his hands, steps forward and follows John.

"John?" Sherlock opens the door slowly and speaks quietly even though he knows John will not actually be asleep.

John sits on the edge of their bed with his feet on the floor and forearms resting on his thighs, hands curled together. He does not look up or respond when Sherlock enters. Sherlock shuts the door behind him and walks across the room. He stands in front of John for a moment then sits down beside him on the bed. He brings up his hand to touch John's arm but drops it down to the covers instead. They sit in silence for one minute and thirty-four seconds.

Then Sherlock says, "I do not try to hurt you, John."

"I know."

Sherlock watches John. "You are angry because I demeaned your position as a doctor?"

John sighs and hunches slightly more. "Sherlock, for someone who thinks so much I do not understand how you can't hear what you say or think about how it sounds before you say it."

"I think about what I say before –"

"No, Sherlock, you don't."

Finally, John turns his head and looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock sees the soldier as though John holds a gun in his hand.

"Sherlock, you've called me an idiot, you've left me to be busted by the police, you've invaded my privacy before it was part of your own, you've played games with me, ignored my opinions as too simple or pedantic or whatever word you rolled out of your thesaurus head but it hasn't really mattered before, not in the same way at least, because I have always admired your skill and your mind."

Sherlock stares at John – such a speech now which John is usually disinclined toward except when Sherlock's conscience needs a tug. John sits up slightly and lays his hands flat on his thighs.

"But you've saved me too with Shan and the pool…" Sherlock flinches. "So I've always thought I mattered more; I wasn't just like all the people you've exposed or talked down to or ridiculed or ignored. I _thought_ I was different or else we wouldn't be together like this."

"John," Sherlock gasps, "you are taking this out of proportion. I made one disparaging remark about –"

"No!" John cuts across Sherlock's sentence so definitively that Sherlock's jaw snaps closed like a reflex. "This is not 'one disparaging remark,' this is you turning me into the same small ignorable thing you view everyone else in the world to be. This is you telling me that my 'purpose' in life, what I do, what I enjoy doing, what I am good at isn't important. That the only benefit in my job, my abilities, as a doctor is to assist you – is as a tool for you."

Sherlock feels like he can't swallow and that something is smashing against his head. "That's not true…"

"Oh?" John sits up straight. "Then what, Sherlock, what did you mean? Was it just you being needy? Wanting me here all the time or am I just a place holder? Am I just the first person in a long time who was amazed instead of insulted and that is why you keep me close because you need someone to revel in your glory?"

"No…"

John's breathes faster and he shakes his head. "The point is, Sherlock, is that then," he jumps up suddenly and points toward the door obviously indicating the living room; "right then you took me down to the level of the rest of them, someone to be disregarded as casually as flicking your hand." John points sharply at Sherlock as he speaks. "You put me, your partner, your boyfriend… you know what, just your plain friend, only friend; you put me in my place which is apparently the same as everyone else; just another simple pawn on your giant chess board!"

John's words crowd in Sherlock's head, make it hard for him to think. He tries to quickly go back the five minutes, access his memories of his exact words and what he was thinking behind them. Was he thinking thoroughly or did he just want John to stay? He always means what he says, so what did he mean? But he can't think straight because panic is starting to creep into every cell of his body. He can feel this whole speech, this litany from John, how it sounds like so many times in his past when someone he'd formed even a small bond with could stand no more of him.

Sherlock forces himself to breathe slowly, tries to organize his brain. "John, that is not true. You are not a pawn to me."

John puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head. "A knight then, stuck making L shapes?"

"Don't resort to sarcastic humor!" Sherlock insists, a slight edge of desperation in the sound. "You _do_ matter to me!"

"Then don't say things like that!" John snaps suddenly, anger fully breaking to the surface. "Don't turn around and forget that I am not just your fucking flatmate! That I should matter more!"

Sherlock reaches out and snatches John's wrist, pulling him close so John's shins knock into the bed.

"You matter," Sherlock says, voice as steady as he can make it, "believe me!"

Suddenly John leans forward and crashes his lips into Sherlock's. Sherlock grabs the edges of John's shirt and pulls while John pushes. Sherlock lands on his back as John crawls up onto the bed on top of him. Sherlock scoots back over the covers, keeping their lips connected and nearly banging his head into the wall, to accommodate John.

They kiss and kiss and it is as if they don't know how to stop. Sherlock bites John's lip so he hisses in pain while John's hand yanks Sherlock's shirt out of his pants. Sherlock touches John's cheeks, coasting over them like he has never felt them before, drags his nails sharply around John's neck so there will be marks. John kisses hard and Sherlock tastes tea in his mouth, licking deeper like there is no choice. John thrusts his hips down once, kneading their growing erections together in a violent way which hurts and helps at the same time. Sherlock groans and thrusts back against John; tries to sit up and get John in his lap but John plants his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and holds him down.

Sherlock growls, "John…"

"No," John bites back, speaking against Sherlock's lips, sucking them and pressing down harder, "no."

Sherlock breathes sharply through his nose and pulls at John's sweater, tries to take it off, but John will not move his hands or stop kissing hard and harsh, biting Sherlock's lips. Sherlock twists his head and knocks their teeth together so John cries out in pained surprise and breaks the kiss. Sherlock pulls hard and gets the sweater over John's head so John is forced to stop and pull it off his arms himself lest it be in the way.

"Bastard…" John mutters, throwing the sweater aside and kissing Sherlock again, fingers flying over Sherlock's buttons opening some and tearing one off completely.

Sherlock pulls at the front of John's shirt, tries to tug John down, closer, touch their chests together. John breaks the kiss, off balance from Sherlock's tugging, and his hands slip from Sherlock's half open shirt to plant on the bed. Sherlock reaches up to nip at John's neck, hands creeping higher under John's shirt, and John gasps shakily. John lies down completely, chest flush against Sherlock's and nearly trapping his hands, then starts sucking a line along Sherlock neck.

"Oh… ggg… John…" Sherlock groans because John's teeth and his tongue and his lips all combined feel like electricity.

John shifts up slowly, dragging their erections against each other and through their clothes it feels like agony. Sherlock grabs John's waist and tries to turn them, to roll John over and get on top. John fights back and shoves in the opposite direction so neither one of them move.

"John," Sherlock snaps and hooks his ankles around John's bent legs, trying to use them like a lever to sit John up.

John kisses down hard then breaks them apart, "stop!"

John sits up abruptly so Sherlock follows him for one moment then falls back against the bed. John breathes heavily, knelt between Sherlock's legs and stares at him. The stay locked in stillness for a few seconds just gazing at each other.

Then John slows his breathing and puts a hand over his eyes, "I don't want this to just become angry sex."

Sherlock purses his lips and props himself up on his elbows. "I'm not angry."

John barks a dry laugh and shakes his head. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock watches John, silence elongating, and fear begins to creep in slightly. "So?"

John looks up again, breathes in. "Sherlock, I love you and I know you do care about me. I know there is something you see in me – I have no idea what – but something which you consider unique. And because of that we're here."

Sherlock gasps – a bare, empty laugh, "Yes."

"But I am going to need you to act a bit more like a human being sometimes, at least when it comes to me, or I can't do this." He waves a hand over them. "I can't let myself do it."

Sherlock swallows once and feels a hollow place that has always lived in his stomach flare. "Ah. I see."

John studies Sherlock's face for a moment then his expression shifts into concern and he sits back on his haunches. "No, I'm sorry." He puts a hand to his forehead. "That was harsher than needed." He waves a hand. "I am not calling you a freak like they do."

Somewhere deep in the back of Sherlock's mind something akin to immense gratitude reconnects broken neurons.

"I know it is hard for you, I know emotions are different for you. I just need you to try, okay?" John leans forward and puts his hands down on the mattress on either side of Sherlock's hips. "Please, just try and remember that it's me."

Sherlock swallows, nods, "Okay," he reaches out and pulls John to him, lays John over him like a blanket. "Okay," he repeats right against John's lips.

John rolls slightly so they lay side by side, legs entwined and noses bumping. John kisses Sherlock, slow and calm now though the arousal still buzzes in them both.

"You matter the most," Sherlock whispers into a kiss.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock, kisses him harder, and they both stop talking.


End file.
